


A Trail Only You Can Find

by lightningwaltz



Category: Hakuouki
Genre: Angst, Companions, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-13 10:01:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3377405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightningwaltz/pseuds/lightningwaltz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A potential Yamazaki route.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Findarato](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Findarato/gifts).



> Yamazaki and Chizuru have a really great dynamic going on in Zuisouroku. Worrying over the Shinsengumi, worrying over each other. Yamazaki saying he thought of her as an equal. It gave me a lot of feelings, and I started writing fic for them. Before I knew it, I realized I was basically writing my take on what the Yamazaki route would look like. This fic will go from beginning to end, and a lot of the usual suspects will end up dying during the course of this story. But there will also be happiness, too. The POV will switch back and forth. This first chapter is a bit Yamazaki heavy but that won't always be the case. Tags will be added as I go, and the rating is almost certainly going to go up in future chapters.
> 
> Gifting this to Calenlass_Greenleaf because I don't know how much I would have thought about this pairing until we started talking a lot!

Many years later, Yamazaki will reread his notes from that day, looking for hints at things to come. He had recorded that there were dark circles under Hijikata’s eyes, but that there had been no evidence of injury. The pallor to Hijikata’s skin was within the realm of the normal. He looked healthier than most men, even then, but Yamazaki hadn’t been slavish enough to write that thought.

There are no mentions of Chizuru but, he will still see her in the spaces between clinical characters. On the day he’d committed those words to paper, they’d been under the same roof; one that had shielded her from snowfall but not from fear. He’d been a few walls away, pressing blood out of his clothing, listening as everyone's footsteps fell a little harsher, a little more harried. 

Their beginning was borne from terrible provenance, but that doesn’t matter. When he eventually adds her in, he’ll record her as a member of the Shinsengumi. 

*

“Last night we picked up a… guest.” Hijikata is being furtive and quiet, but he states this without frills. Words never seem to edge out of the corner of his mouth. They never get tangled up in jokes or complaints or metaphors. “But you already knew that.” 

It was more like Yamazaki was already _certain_ , after that unusually formidable cleanup duty. Six corpses, and he had to take care of them before the sullen early morning hours made bare all this nastiness. At least Okita and Saito had taken the blue haori with them. 

The bodies had been heavy with death, and the winter air had slowed the progression towards rotting. The alleyway ran red and that was all he could smell, more than anything else. Like all blood, it stuck and stained, telling stories that people tried to wash away. Most of the splatters had been indiscriminate and violent; the kind of gore left after a predator had made away with his dinner. Then Yamazaki had noticed a few streaks of blood that had fallen in precise and elegant patterns. (This probably meant Saito had gone in for the kill several times.)

At one point he had come across a small footprint. Either a child or a woman’s, and not from anyone he knew. He had decided it must have come from a woman, because he hadn’t wanted to think about a kid wandering so far afield. He had imagined this unknown person stepping into the blood, slipping a little- sticking a little- and realizing with revulsion that it wasn’t water. _This, in turn, makes him recall how he’d tasted bile the first time he’d seen blood spilled so thoroughly. Ibuki had scolded him for his squeamishness and Yamazaki had added this incident to his reasons to hate the guy. He had kept adding to this list, until he’d decided to like Ibuki instead_. 

Of course she’s here in headquarters. Whoever she is. If she was near enough to the furies to get blood on her shoes, then Hijikata would have hauled her back.

“Yes,” he says now. “I had my suspicions that something like that had happened, vice-commander.” 

For the first time since sitting down for this meeting, Hijikata seems to be truly seeing Yamazaki. He comes alive with a near laugh. “You probably had an awful night, huh?” 

Yamazaki squints. He won’t fidget or look away, but this is a tricky question. 

“Relax. I don’t know how you get this kind of thing done so fast, but we’re really fucking lucky that you do.” 

_Well then._ Yamazaki doesn’t do what he does for acclaim. He does it for the challenge of being quieter than shadows, and more invisible and indispensable than air. He won’t ever be a samurai, but not many samurai can do what he does, either. 

But, still. The praise is a cord in his heart, tying him to the Shinsengumi.

“The witness is a young woman,” Hijikata says at last. 

“I see.” 

“You guessed that too.” 

“…”

“Seriously, _relax_. It’s fine.”

So, the newcomer is female, for sure. Sometimes the soldiers talk about women as if they are an indistinguishable, mysterious mass. The same personality wrapped up in kimonos. Enigmas flitting just out of reach. Gathering intelligence has disabused Yamazaki of that opinion. This interloper must be approached like he would approach any unknown man. Capable of all manner of mundane generosity or petty malice. Anything and everything in between.

It _was_ a bit difficult to imagine a woman in headquarters, though.

“Some of the captains really want me to release her. The others are demanding that I kill her right away. Though I think some of them are being so bloodthirsty because it bothers their conscience. They want to get it over with.” Sometimes Hijikata sneaks dangerously close to confiding in Yamazaki. “Although not everyone who’s pushing for her death is doing it for that reason.”

Yamazaki doesn’t need to guess who’s being straightforwardly murderous. “This is a complex situation.” Even beyond the immediate concern of concealing sensitive information, there are other matters. Things that churn just below the surface, injuries that have not quite healed. After all, Ibuki had also been someone unaffiliated with the Shinsengumi, and it had ended in catastrophe for him.

“It gets worse. She is claiming to be Kodo’s daughter.”

“You don’t believe her?” 

Hijikata pinches the bridge of his nose. Yamazaki wants to tell him about the various acupuncture techniques that would reduce headaches. But it’s not the time or place to say such things. 

“I want to believe her. If it’s true, that would be… Well, it would still be less than convenient. But at least she’d probably still get to live.” 

_Probably_ For some reason, Yamazaki imagines the Yukimura girl’s fear, and how it would stick to the back of her throat. That she’s afraid, he has no doubt. Her situation is a bit like being a banner twisting in a hurricane. She’s stuck in place, unable to escape, subject to the vagaries of all kinds of violent forces. 

“You also want me to go to…” Yamazaki stumbles, trying to remember where Kodo claims to be from. It’s strange that they’ve entrusted so much of their lives to a man they barely know. “You want me to go to Edo to verify her claims?” 

“I know that’s a long way,” Hijikata says, even though it would never occur to Yamazaki to worry about that. “But the man is missing for a reason. Either she really is his daughter, or someone involved with his disappearance has sent her as a spy. There’s no way she’s a neutral party in all this.” 

“I don’t mind the distance. Although…” he hesitates. There’s no way to say what he’s thinking without appearing arrogant.

“Will we be fine without you? Maybe. Maybe not.” A self-deprecating smile. “Things are already spread thin here. But it’ll be even worse off if she is a spy. And if that’s true, we’ll be wishing we’d taken the time to check up on her story.”

 _So I’m crucial either way._ The thought shines and he cups it in his hands before snuffing it out. He is crucial, but he is like a limb. He can’t be like a hand that starts thinking for itself.

*

The ropes are gone, but Chizuru is restrained all the same. She sits on the floor, and meditates until time grows fuzzy around the edges. At one point she measures the width of the room, and decides that it amounts to three of her stacked head to toe. This is good. This is one thing she knows for certain.

She’s repeating the same process for the room’s length, when the door slides open. A stranger stands in the entrance, and for a moment she’s too anxious to be self-conscious. Chizuru pulls herself to her feet, nearly tripping over her hakama in the process. Thus far her captors had been harsh but fair. Almost neglectful, save for feeding her punctually. (This was not a small thing; she’s heard snatches of conversation that indicate that money is tight around here.) 

All the same, each stranger is an unknown variable. Upon seeing an unfamiliar face, she’ll swallow, try to make herself small and nonthreatening, and pray that this one won’t be worse than the others.

(And then there’s that small part of her that is starving for human contact. A small but tangible part that will take fear over the slow death of loneliness.)

“Sorry for interrupting your rest,” the newcomer says, even though she was nowhere near her sleeping mat. Chizuru appreciates his tact. “I take care of most medical needs around here.” 

She watches him out of the corner of her eye, shoulders slumped. She’s always prepared to bow these days. His introduction pierces something in her heart, and she realizes she's not too tired for pain.

“So you knew- _know_ my father?” 

“We worked together from time to time.” He sits down on the floor, and Chizuru sits across from him. She notices then that he has a small box in hand. 

“How did he seem, before… Before.” Before he disappeared, vanished, left. Abandoned her. Before he was murdered. She can’t say, doesn’t want to say. She doesn’t know if any of these things have happened, so, in this lonely space, it seems as though all these things have happened.

Here’s another thing she knows for certain; this man is one of the last people to hear her father speak, and maybe even laugh. Envy threatens to crush her. She imagines being like Hijikata. Grabbing him, demanding answers.

“He was pleasant to work with.” He places the container down, and flips open the lid. Gauze, other bandages, and ointment that Chizuru recognizes as treatment for chafing. “We didn’t speak often, though. I can’t say I know him well.” 

“Oh.” Her arms press against her rib cage, as though she’s trying to squish down her own disappointment. “I guess you wouldn’t have had any hints about where he’s gone?” 

She expects the flat denial, because that has been her world for the past few days. 

“Not at the moment. I do some intelligence gathering the Shinsengumi, however, so if I hear anything of use I will let you know.” 

“Thank you,” she says, a little stunned. No threats, demands, or disregard. Just a small dose of hope. _I wonder if he’s a good doctor._ she thinks. _He probably is._. “Thank you so much,” she repeats, a little louder, a little happier. 

“It’s nothing,” he says, because it must be, for him. “Can you hold your hands out?” 

Chizuru stares at him.

“I know you must have been tied up for hours. I want to treat your wounds.” 

This inspires a different round of fears, but Chizuru bunches her sleeves up around her elbows. Her wrists are clean, free from scabs or rope burn. _She feels her father’s fingers digging into her shoulder. That kind face briefly twisted in fear. She was not to climb trees because she might scratch herself. If her friends raced each other she must hold back, lest she fall and scrape her knee. She heard how the neighbors had described her as kind, but overly aloof and fearful, even for a little girl. Loneliness tasted like unmarked skin. It tasted like the inside of her home while other children played._

Here, now, the young man holds her arm gingerly, slowly turning her hand this way and that. The fabric slides down, slipping over his own fingers, and then he lets her go. His touch has been impersonal throughout the entire process.

“You see? There’s nothing to worry about. I’m fine.” She says this lightly, willing him to accept this as normal. She cannot discern whether he’s biding his time or if he is being polite. He does not have the aura of a forgetful man. 

“Your ankles are also fine?” He asks, and she nods. Thankfully he does not ask to see them.

“Well,” he says, “I guess I’m overly careful.” He gathers his medical supplies. 

“It was kind of you to look in on me, though.” Chizuru does mean this. If the ropes _had_ hurt her, the injuries would have been too minor to care about. And yet he had stopped to check anyway. “What’s your name? I want to thank you properly.” 

For some reason, this is the first thing to chip his calm veneer. “Oh, me? I’m Yamazaki.” 

“Thank you, Yamazaki.” She bows and, for the first time in days, it’s not out of fear. He leaves much more quickly than he entered.

*

She had asked for his name, but he’d never thought to ask for hers. Even though it was the most elementary, basic kind of question. He’d just nodded, gathered his things, and then shut the door behind him. Hermetically sealing her in what must be a great deal of unhappiness. This question of her _name_ weighs him down, a headache at the crown of his skull. It’s entirely backwards, this state of affairs. He knows the identities of half the city, while very few even realize he exists. 

“Oh, the Yukimura girl?" Gen says, after being asked. “She's called Chizuru.” 

“Chizuru.” Yamazaki repeats. It pairs well with her family name, somehow. Yes, he really should have just asked her. Why hadn’t Hijikata told him, anyway? Had he assumed Yamazaki already knew? “What do you think of her?” 

Gen looks up from the sword he’s cleaning, briefly clenching the rag into his fist. “She seems so conscientious.” This surprises Yamazaki. It’s the kind of trait Gen admires. “The commanders are doing what’s necessary but… it’s a shame. I wish it didn’t have to be this way.” 

This makes Yamazaki haul his sack of traveling supplies back off the floor. “It’s required for now, but it doesn’t have to stay this way.” Not if they all did their jobs properly.

And now for one last conversation. It’s one Yamazaki doesn’t want to have, but there’s no escaping from it.

Okita and Saito are practicing outside. It would be easy to say their matches are like a dance, and they do look like vicious works of art to Yamazaki. At times their sparring matches are like the visual translation of a private joke. Today, though, they are engaged in the sword’s true intent; to kill, and to do it meticulously. When they are like this it is easy to see that the rumors must be true. When Saito and Okita met, they really did almost murder one another. For the sheer pleasure of the attempt. Nothing personal, just two masters doing what they did best.

Yamazaki edges in during a break in the action. Okita has a way of looking at him as though a kitten with fleas has just curled into his lap. 

“Yes, what?” His forehead shines from the exertion. Near them, Saito has pulled off his scarf and wrings it out. It reminds Yamazaki that Saito is quite lean, with slender shoulders. 

“It’s dangerous to sweat out in the cold,” Yamazaki says before he can stop himself. Not that he tries very hard with Okita. “It’s still winter, you know.”

“Did you really go out of your way to tell me that?” Okita runs his finger against his own ear all the same. It’s one of those extremities that freezes quickly, after all. 

“No. It’s about… Kodo’s daughter.” As he says this, he wishes he was wearing his mask. He could have pulled it over his face, and muffled some of his words. Okita would have had to strain to listen, but oh well. “You two tied her up that first night, yeah?” 

“Of course we did. She was a captive.” Okita’s cheekbones have always been high and sharp, but today Yamazaki thinks he’d bleed if he touched them. He’ll have to keep an eye on this.

“Did you tie her _tightly_?” He thinks about her wrists, with their blue veins breaking the surface of the skin. He was able to see all the places where she probably tanned in the summer. Scratches and chafing had been nowhere in evidence.

“She was a _captive_.” Okita repeats, as if Yamazaki is an unintelligent child. Actually, Yamazaki has seen him be much more patient than this with unintelligent children. “Still is. Of _course_ we tied her properly.” Ah, yes. Out came his smirk. “What, are you into that kind of thing?” 

Some people became indignant when caught shirking duties. Okita was the opposite. He was many things, but he never slacked in his devotion to the Shinsengumi. It’s why Yamazaki cannot hate him, even if talking to him is about as pleasant as swallowing a bottle of vinegar. 

“Just checking.” 

This next part should be easier, but something in him shrinks from this even more than the conversation with Okita. Though they’ve always gotten along, sometimes looking at Saito burns down locked rooms, reminds him that certain scars can still bleed. 

_He’ll be reminded of patching up Ibuki’s throat, nauseous and overjoyed that the sword wound hadn’t hit an artery. Trying not to sweat on the stitches. Saito had been there for all of it, white-knuckled, quieter than usual, doing whatever Yamazaki had asked. When the worst of it all had passed, when he was certain Ibuki would survive after all, Yamazaki’s had tears refused to stay behind their dam. Saito hadn’t mocked or ridiculed him. Instead, he had listened to what Yamazaki had had to say._

“Listen, one last thing about Yukimura...” 

Saito places his scarf back over his shoulders. It’s mesmerizing to watch, somehow. “I do not have much control over her situation.” 

_That’s not true, and you know it._ One of them could help the girl escape at any point. They all chose not to do so, Yamazaki included. Some might have nobler intentions than others, but there was no point in self-delusion. Yamazaki searches himself for shame and finds none. Instead, his feet itch to get on the road, to find the corroborating evidence that might lead to one less dead person. He'll say this fast, so he can go

“Being stuck in place is very unhealthy. One of the worst things that can happen to a person.” Maybe a bit dramatic, but Yamazaki knows Saito likes a bit of drama.

(“We don’t take people prisoner for their health,” Okita interjects, but he is ignored.) 

“And?” Saito stares at Yamazaki without malice. Listening, intent.

“I know this can’t happen for a while, but, if it’s ever in your power, I suggest impressing upon Kondou-san and Hijikata-san that she needs exercise. Even if it’s just a few laps around the courtyard.” 

“Anything else?” 

"No. See you in a week or two,” he says to the both of them. One foot in front of the other, and he’s put all this behind him.

*

Roads are like the circulatory system. Veins converging and dispersing from the most vital entities. Cities and organs were one and the same. The moment Yamazaki sets foot in the Yukimuras’ old neighborhood, he thinks about how this street is the beginning of one possible journey back to Kyoto.

Edo is much like any other city. He slides around people, in and out of their purview. If someone bumps into him they apologize or curse at him, and he’s forgotten after the next breath or blink. It’s easy to take on disguises in such an atmosphere. Yamazaki can be a new person each time he rounds the corner and is in a new space. 

The Yukimuras' neighbors don’t have the arch politeness of people from Kyoto. However, they are (unknowingly) quick to give him information. 

“Oh, you mean the rangaku doctor?” It’s the same answer everyone has been giving him when Yamazaki asks about the talented physician that’s said to live in the area. Yukimura-something-or-other. This woman has a small boy in tow and no matter how many times to steal away from her, she never lets go of his hand. “He lives over there, but he has been away for quite some time. If you need a doctor, you might want to look elsewhere.” 

“Does he have any family in the area? Maybe they know where he’s gone.” It’s the next question in Yamazaki’s script, one he takes care to state with bland detachment. 

“Yes, there’s a daughter.” Not everyone knows Chizuru, but the closer he gets to her home, the more people do remember her. “She left recently, too, I’m afraid.” 

That’s something other people have said. He watches as the woman's mouth opens and shuts, and there’s wrinkling on her brow. It’s the look of someone who wants to confess something, but doesn’t think they should. It’s the look someone might get if they had witnessed a female neighbor leave while dressed in a young man’s outfit.

“I guess I’ll try elsewhere!” Yamazaki says, all nonchalant joviality. The woman sighs, possibly relieved to be rid of him. She might gossip about him later, or she might forget. It will probably be the latter; Yamazaki just has that kind of face.

He’s back again that night, long after most of the neighborhood is resting peacefully. The moon is as thin as a chewed off fingernail, and the Yukimura home almost looks like it’s reproaching him. If people knew how easy it was to break into houses such as this, they would choose to sleep in shifts. 

The moment he’s inside, Yamazaki sneezes, angering himself in the process. If the house wasn’t abandoned, he would be in trouble. His movements have kicked the dust up into the air. He runs his finger along a table, and looks at the gray stuff on his fingers. Kodo has been missing for months, but this isn’t an amount of debris consistent with that time frame. This household has been maintained up until quite recently. 

He lights a lamp. It’s large enough to see, but small enough that it’s not going to display his silhouette to any pedestrians outside. The books and scrolls command his attention, because they are the most prominently displayed things in the room. Kodo is definitely a rangaku doctor, just as described. He has those tomes, translated from the Dutch, full of information on the human body. Cross-sections of bones and guts, and all the different parts that make up a human. This information is slightly dated, Yamazaki knows. This is an edition from several decades back. He wonders if the Europeans have managed to isolate the soul, and excise _that_ from the body. 

One of his first memories involves this type of medicine. He’d heard that it was pretty different from his family’s livelihood, and he had puffed up with the offense of it all. His father had taken him for a walk, patiently explaining that acupuncture can exist side-by-side with other types of medicine. Yamazaki’s father had found his calling, but the world was too big for there to be only one answer. There were many ways to care for others.

Yamazaki closes the book, and it sounds much louder than it is in this hollow place. This is a doctor’s home, and at first Kodo’s presence looms larger than anything else. The bandages, the slings and knives. Pale medicines in glass jars. He even has many of the same herbs as his father. But the more he searches the home, the more he finds traces of the Yukimura daughter. Dried flowers in between books, and affectionate notes to her father. Modest jewelry that was, nevertheless, handsomely made. Very few cosmetics, that he could see (Yazamaki is amused to realize he probably owns more than her.) There’s a notebook with the occasional observations and reminders. She seemed to have started it after he father’s absence, so that, if he returned, he might know the status of his patients. 

The more he reads, the more he sketches together the personality of the girl who lived in this home. Knows her and likes her. This might be why he avoids going through their clothes until it starts to seem a little ridiculous. When the time comes, he does it as quickly as possible. The feel of the fabric matches what it was like when her sleeves slid against his fingers. Same make, same material. The haori she was wearing was purchased around here.

He believes she’s who she claims to be, but other mysteries remain. Chizuru never records anything about herself. Before he leaves, he finds her notebook again. He flips through it, squinting in the dim light until the words stab his eyes. Gen is right; 'conscientious' is the right word for her. It’s a good thing, but he wishes she’d have been just a little more prone to self-reflection. This journal is no pillow book, that’s for sure. She never writes about the food she’s purchased, or the joke she hears. She records no complaints about the weather and she definitely fails to discuss her curious, unbloodied skin. 

At first he is angry. And then he recalls that his own records are much the same. If someone tried to find Yamazaki within his piles of notes, they would be likewise denied. 

*

Chizuru doesn’t see Yamazaki for a while. A fortnight at least. It’s an insignificant amount of time, but enough to incur its own changes. She can enjoy food, because fear no longer renders it tasteless. She starts to memorize everyone by the timber of their laughter and their footsteps just outside her door. When she thinks the word ‘home,’ she’s a bit horrified to realize she’s picturing the four corners of her room here. Home might just be wherever you sleep many nights in a row. Home is wherever people will tolerate you.

And then, one day, Saito takes her out into their courtyard. Tells her that she’s permitted to walk around the area. The trees haven’t begun to bloom yet, and it seems like a thousand eyes must be watching her. But she’s giddy with the wind on her cheeks, and the sun in her hair. 

When Yamazaki steps into the area, she waves a ‘hello!’ to him before she remembers herself. She bows, after that.

“Hi,” he says, looking at her, looking at Saito. “Doing well?”

“Yes,” she replies. Because right now it’s true.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man. First of all, I'm so sorry about the year-long delay on this chapter. A great deal of it was written half a year ago, but I got cold feet. And some hella bad writer's block.
> 
> Also, oh man, so much has happened in the Hakuouki franchise over the past year. Most important, _Shinkai_ has given Yamazaki a legitimate route! I am so incredibly excited about that but, in the end, apparently I can't quite keep away from this particular fic. 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who's left such encouraging comments on this fic over the past year. You really helped me overcome the aforementioned writers block and got me to chip away at this chapter until, finally, it was done.

When Sannan submits to Yamazaki’s medical treatments, he’s still as stone, obeying every command. He never gainsays Yamazaki’s opinions and his jokes are never a distraction. He’s drinking quite a lot during it all, and occasionally biting the back of his hand when things get too painful, but otherwise he’s the type of patient that most doctors pray for. 

That’s what makes this so hard. 

Yamazaki inspects Sannan’s arm and he chews his cheeks until he tastes copper rather than despondency. There’s adrenaline spiking through the chambers of his heart, and it’s filled with vexation at Yazamaki’s own inadequacies as a physician. The minutes- the seconds- were crucial here, and he was going to let Sannan down. 

Earlier, he had been glad to see that he wasn’t dealing with a compound break. That always exposed tissue and nerves, and Yamazaki would set bones, stitch up wounds, all the while noticing every bit of dirt, every fleck of dust. He would have to seal up his patient, before the filth of the world found its way in. Those patients tended to scream bloody murder as he worked on them, too. It wasn’t always from the pain. The sight of bone jamming up, out of one’s body, could send the hardiest warriors into shock. Some of them died from the surprise, even if their injury would not have killed them. 

So, when Sannan had staggered to him, calmly informing Yamazaki that he was _quite sure_ that his arm was broken, it had been easy enough to draw comfort fromthe sight of unbroken skin. 

It takes one touch to know that there was something deeply wrong though, under epidermis and muscle. Yamazaki counts at least three places where the bone has been shattered; this was something few people ever made a full recovery from. He pulls his hand away to avoid sliding up and down the arm, hoping that he’ll feel something different the longer he touches Sannan.

“It’s bad,” Sannan says. His voice is wispy. Like flakes of metal peeled away by a whetstone. “I knew the moment I felt myself break.” 

Distantly, Yamazaki hears that choice of words and it upsets him. Sannan felt _himself_ breaks. Not his bones, not his arm. His very self. 

Everything. 

“It’s far from ideal,” he says. And he can’t tolerates imprecision in language, so he adds; “I was hoping for a clean break. Those are always much easier to heal.” 

*

Misfortune is a singular thing, and it is often unique to one’s individual circumstances. And yet, even the hardiest of people sometimes retreat from it. Like they’re running from something as indiscriminate as hail. Something as infectious as a pandemic.

Chizuru notices that it goes this way for Sannan, when the leaders return. No one says anything cruel. No one tells him to leave. And fearful politeness takes the place of rambunctious companionship. Sannan is a quarantined man, somehow, even if he wanders the halls freely. Chizuru notes the way nearly everyone looks at his bandages first, before raising their eyes to his face. She notes that Sannan seems too pale, almost transparent at times. He’s becoming a ghost well before his death. Other than the barest of greetings, they’ve rarely exchanges more than a handful of sentences. Still, she remembers how he was one of the few who refrained from trying to intimidate her. 

She remembers what it feels like to be shut away. 

“Have we really-…? I mean. I guess we have been avoiding him.” Heisuke had sighed a little when she asked, but now his thoughts are coming out in grateful fits and starts. “It’s not that we think he’s contagious or anything. I think we find his sadness hard to deal with.” 

They’re sitting on a bench under a tree. The day is uncommonly bright, and that's how why parched, withered leaf falls, dying, landing inChizuru’s hands. She lets it rest on her palm, crackly and warm, and wants to crush it in her fist. 

“You must have seen a lot of injuries, though.” Does she sound like she’s chiding? Mostly she is curious, in a discomfited sort of way. It’s hard to imagine Heisuke doing anything out of cruelty or callousness. 

“We have. We’ve seen worse injuries, too.” The wind picks up, and it rifles through Heisuke’s hair. She wonders if anyone has tried to grab it in battle. An image wafts into her head; someone grabbing onto Heisuke’s scalp, and holding his neck up to a sword. Her body goes cold, and it fails to melt even in this heat. 

“Then what’s different here?” She fears for all of them, she realizes. Even the ones who ignore her, or glare at her for being an interloper. It’s hard to remain distant when you see people bickering, laughing over drinks, and mock-arguing over who happens to be the strongest. 

“Well…” Heisuke’s laughter is patently false, but he pushes through anyway. Possibly for her sake. (Sometimes Chizuru marvels over how friendship has sprung up between them, like vines sneaking up through rock or petrified trees.) “Well, a lot of those really bad injuries… You don’t expect anyone to recover from them, you know? They die doing what they were meant to do. Sannan-san’s injury isn’t fatal, but his life is still over.” 

“No, it’s not.” There’s no force to her voice at all, but she’s remembering things. The patients who succumbed to illness and injury in her father’s home, and how their bodies had been cold. Heavy with a lack of soul, heavy with their relatives’ tears. That was the end. That was true death. She thinks about how that might be her own father’s fate, too. If that’s the case, he’s rotting somewhere, without a loved one to see him on his way. “It’s not,” she repeats, softer still, and somehow that captures Heisuke’s full attention. 

“I know what you’re implying and you’re not wrong. But, look, a lot of us have been preparing for this kind of life since we could walk and talk, practically. You get an idea of how things should be, and now Sannan's hopes are just… gone and now he has to start over. Unless there’s some kind of miracle. I think we’re all scared of that happening to us, too. And we’re sad for him because we can easily guess what he’s thinking.” Heisuke talks. He talks and he talks, and Chizuru realizes he’s right. Everyone must be feeling this way. And everyone is failing to give voice to it. 

“I want to help Yamazaki-san with Sannan.” Her own words come as a shock, even to herself. But they also thaw her out. Get her blood moving again. She can’t penetrate this vise of fear- not when the warrior class is so foreign to her- but there are certain things she _can_ do. “Do you think you can ask him if he’s willing to do that? I know my situation is a bit unusual but I wouldn’t be leaving the compound.” 

The look on Heisuke’s face surprises her almost as much as the boldness of her own request. His expression is a bit stricken, but also a bit awestruck. “I can do that. The captains will probably all agree…” His words trail off, and she can’t follow them. 

“But?”

“But Yamazaki is kind of proud. He might say no. So, um, be ready for that.” 

Alright then. Chizuru is prepared for such an outcome. Many of her entreaties have been denied. At worst, she’s in for more of the usual tedium.

And yet, a night comes when Yamazaki appears at her doorway. He’s as terse as ever, but she senses no irritation in him. If he thinks she’s trying to steal his duties, he never reprimands her for it. She shadows him, following his trail to Sannan. Following him to usefulness.

The experience is distantly horrible, even though there’s no screaming, no demands, no recriminations. Just Yamazaki’s stern face bent over Sannan’s arm. His hands are terribly gentle as he takes stock of shattered bones. Chizuru watches those fingers move, learning from him, quietly absorbing everything the way her skin absorbs candlelight. She helps remove and replace the bandaging. Chizuru and Yamazaki confer together over whether they’ve seen any signs of infection, and both decide that there are none. That’s unlikely at such a late stage. 

Though they are prodding at his fundamental frame, talking to Sannan is like trying to grab onto fistfuls of smoke. 

He also thanks them in the end. 

After they’ve left, Yamazaki doesn’t say a word. Not until they’ve returned to Chizuru’s room. 

“What did you think, Yukimura?” It’s a test, and she knows it. There’s a snarl lurking in Yamazaki’s jaw, but she thinks his anger is reserved for himself. 

“I think he had a difficult injury, but you’ve done well by him.” 

Sannan’s plight had ensnared her thoroughly. However, Yamazaki must have some regrets of his own. He must wake up every day, dreading everyone’s civil words and tacit dread. He must blam himself. She knows this, because there are times he reminds her of looking into a mirror. 

“Really,” she persists, as he continues to stare at her. “That kind of injury… Whenever my father had- has- to treat it, he gets pretty upset because he knows it’s very difficult. It’s almost impossible for such a patient to make a full recovery. But there _are_ ways to help them, and you did everything right. He'll get better or he won't, but if he doesn't it's not because of something you did. It's just fate, either way.” 

Yamazaki almost smiles. Almost.

“But don’t you hate entrusting things to fate?” 

“Every day,” she says, so quietly that she expects him not to hear her. Hopes for that, to be honest. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Yamazaki says, leaving her. He takes his lantern light with him, but Chizuru sees everything clearly, all the same. 

*

Chizuru’s world is expanding a bit, every single day. She has a greater latitude of movement, even if she must stay inside. She cooks, she cleans, and, above all, she helps Yamazaki. She must have been helpful to him with Sannan, because now she helps out with the injuries and illnesses of the others. 

Every so often, she’s even allowed outside the compound. She often has to break into a half-run, pursuing the flowing tail of her supervisor’s blue haori. Some of them will slow down for her, others will be so caught up in the moment they don’t quite see her. And then there’s Okita, who will do either of those things and will, sometimes, deliberately speed up. (Though he hasn’t done that ever since she pointed out it’s not safe.) When each search yields no clues about her father, each man has their way of comforting her, or allowing her the dignity of silent reflection. 

Mostly, though, she stays indoors. A great deal of her time is spent arranging the medical supplies. She’s doing this on the day Kondou came rushing to find her. She knows it’s him well before he rounds the corner. 

“Yukimura!” He bursts out, and then stares at her work. How she’s arranging the bandages by length, size, and purposes. “Wow, you take this seriously.”

From anyone else here it would probably be a coded way of telling her to get a life. From Kondou, though, it’s the kind of thing that makes a person glow from the praise. 

“Thank you!” she bows as she says this. Back in her room, she still has some of Kondou’s latest offerings of candy. It’s always tempting to bite into them at once, but she makes herself save them when she feels so bleak and lonely she can barely move. 

“Eating… eating… Right. That reminds me. I came to find you.” 

“Me?” He rarely tosses chores her way, probably due to a sense of chivalry. Sometimes she wishes she had the courage to tell him that he can. “I’d be happy to help in any way.” 

“I need you to make tea.”

“Oh.” _Keep smiling, Chizuru._ She doesn’t mind doing this, but Kondou’s demeanor had her getting excited in spite of herself. “Yes, of course.”

“It’s for a guest,” Kondou adds. “A very important one. I used to ask Saito to do this whenever this happens but… You’re a woman, so maybe…” 

“Of course. I’ll work on that right away.” 

“Thank you.” Kondou nods. “Remember, this is _very_ important," he adds before they go their separate ways.

Yamazaki is there, when she enters the kitchen. When they much work together, they are both masters of taking up as little space as possible. In the kitchen, this translates to chopping and stirring, quietly asking for feedback. He can be so unobtrusive that her eyes nearly glide over the slightly odd state of his hair. But then, when she notices it, it’s difficult to look anywhere else.

“What is it, Yukimura?” 

“Nothing.” She goes for the supplies, pausing when Yamazaki scoffs quite distinctly. “It’s just that your hair is… Did you just come from bed?” She cringes as she measures out tea. It sounds like she’s scolding him. “Um, sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

She spends more time with Yamazaki than the other men but, if pressed, she could probably describe the elusive Hijikata with much more finesse. All she knows is that the tangles in Yamazaki’s hair definitely come from lying down. It’s hard to imagine him in bed, watching shadows move across the floor, and thinking _just a few more moments of sleep!_ Somehow, it’s an endearing thought, and a vision she’d like to see in person.

She favors him with a tentative smile, and it broadens into something more genuine after he starts to laugh. Then he flattens his hair down with a broad sweep of his hand.

“You’re observant. We should have you do what I do.” It’s a joke, but his countenance grows much more serious as he regards her. 

Were you up late because of reconnaissance?”

“So late it became morning again. I decided to catch a few hours of sleep because having a little rest is better than none.” 

So much for the fantasy of Yamazaki being a late sleeper. Ah well. “Then this is breakfast for you!” 

He lifts and drops a shoulder. Sure, why not. “And this is… More tea, huh?” 

So Yamazaki has noticed that this is one of her few non-medical chores. _Kondou has basically sent me on a mission, though._

“Yes and no.”

Now Yamazaki looks truly intrigued, and also a little disconcerted. “How can something be tea and not tea?” 

Laughter feels good in her throat. “I’m being asked to prepare tea for a guest.” 

At once, Yamazaki’s face grows serious. Normally, Chizuru would worry she had stumbled into something confidential. With Yamzaki, she just feels like a conspirator. 

“A guest… Did the Commander seem agitated?” 

Chizuru’s eyes dart about so that she can look over her shoulder. 

“Don’t worry,” Yamzaki adds. “I would know if anyone was nearby.”

“Okay, then. Yes, he did.”

“Did he indicate the guest’s gender?”

“I think he said a woman was visiting?” The command had been a bit muddled, actually. 

“Hmmmm.” Yamazaki scratches the back of his head, and then lets out the most impressive sigh Chizuru has ever heard. “Okita Mitsu, then.” He starts rooting around among their things, and hands her some ginger for the tea. Good for the liver, good for stress. “Add that.”

She does as requested. “Okita Mitsu… Okita…” She takes care of the ginger, and her nose fills with spicy sweetness. “His sister? Okita’s, I mean?”

“Yes. She can’t visit him often, but whenever she does... well.” Another laughter, this one more of a shriek. “You’ll probably see, I suppose.”

She tries to imagine him Okita as a child, trailing behind an older sister. Somehow, she has always pictured Okita leaping into the world fully formed, brandishing a sharp sword and sharper words. If Yamazaki had told her he’d sprung from the blood of a dead man, Chizuru would not have been surprised. 

Chizuru berates herself a little, as she fills cups with tea. She continues to reflect on this, as she places those cups on a tray. Everyone has a past. Everyone has to be taught, in some fashion, to hate, and to fear, and to hurt. 

“Alright, I’m going,” she says, looking over her shoulder at Yamazaki. 

“Good luck,” he says. She almost smiles until she realizes Yamazaki is quite serious.

Outside, the sun is a sour sort of yellow that seems to singe her eyelashes. When she ducks back inside, on her way to the dining area, gray spots swim before her eyes. They’re still semi-blinding her, when she comes across Kondou and Hijikata sitting at a table. And, yes, a woman sits with them in a place of honor. Chizuru is quite taken with the straightness of her back, and the graceful angles of her neck. She has the kind of countenance that always makes Chizuru aware of all the various flaws in her own clothing and demeanor. 

She approaches the table, walking carefully, not spilling a single drop. The three of them are engaging in cautious conversation. Their polite words are like gilded embroidery on ancient, fraying fabric. Chizuru half expects to hold her hand out, to find that the temperature here is cold enough to give her frostbite. She notices that someone has put a scroll painting up on the wall. Over the place where Shinpachi or maybe Heisuke left a big dent in the wall while drunkenly horsing around.

“Ah, the incomparable Yukimura is here with tea.” 

Chizuru wishes Kondou had introduced her in another way. She wishes he had not introduced her at all. It would have been perfectly acceptable for her to drift in, present everyone with their tea, and then leave. Now, this practically begs the woman to look at her. And, yes, she has Okita’s eyes. They’re a tad friendlier, and there are hints of wrinkles from smiling. She still looks quite young, otherwise, so Chizuru wonders at the faint crease between her brows. It probably comes from stress.

But those are still Okita's eyes.

“Are you offended he called you incomparable, but not your tea? That implies that your work was mediocre.”

Chizuru tries to look to Kondou and Hijikata for guidance, without turning her head and making it obvious. Hijikata has an interesting slant to his shoulders. Like he wants to start sprinting away and never stop until the city is miles behind him. Chizuru’s never quite seen this expression from him, and so she almost forgets how she’s been yanked into the forefront.

Kondou starts laughing, a second too late. 

“If she’s ‘incomparable,’ then everything she accomplishes is the same,” he says. And this is one of his talents; speaking so assertively that it’s a pleasure to believe him.

Chizuru begins the work of placing a cup in front of each person. Some of the steam makes he hands slick with condensation, and she concentrates so hard on _not messing up_ , that she quite forgets that there’s no one here for the fourth cup. For a second she holds it over the empty spot, and everyone pauses in whatever they are doing. They’re all seeing Okita in that empty space.

“No worries, Yukimura.” Kondou again, conducting this like a skirmish. “Souji is late from patrol, but he will be here soon.”

“My brother is _always_ out on patrol when I visit.” Mitsu samples the tea. “It’s a talent of his.” 

“I always strongly encourage Souji to spend time with you,” Kondou says, and he sounds like himself again. A little sad, but like himself. “And to write to you.”

When Mitsu’s smile softens, and almost flattens out, it’s somehow more welcoming than a friendlier expression. “I know you do, Kondou-san.” Something passes between them that Chizuru can’t read, and Mitsu is the first to look away. She drinks some more from the tea, setting her sights on Chizuru over the rim of the cup. “Oh, this is quite good after all. Please, sit with us. I hate having an empty chair at a tea ceremony.” 

It’s hardly a ‘tea ceremony,’ but Hijikata stares at her for the first time. Finally a familiar expression; it’s akin to the very first one she ever saw from him.

Chizuru sits down.

“Thank you for your kind words,” Chizuru says, wondering if she is supposed to simply sit here, or if she is expected to drink Okita’s tea. If she did, would Okita kill her later?

“Yukimura, Yukimura…” Mitsu tastes the name, after taking yet another impeccable sip of tea. “I remember you.” 

It’s so perplexing that Chizuru can’t even be afraid. “How do you know me?”

“Why, I remember you taking care of everyone last time I visited. Everyone was calling you a doctor then, though, you were much older, and you had no hair. But you’ve also become much more pretty- I mean, _handsome._ What an accomplishment.”

She might as well have extended that sophisticated hand and dropped the tea cup onto the floor. Chizuru can almost feel how the shards would slice into her foot, down to the bone. Kondou’s eyes widen, and Hijikata’s jaw clenches.

_I shouldn’t have let her hear my voice!_ That’s the first thought, filtered through heavy guilt, spiked with shards of fear. 

Chizuru suddenly wants to reach for the unclaimed cup after all. It would give her hands something to do. It would give the appearance of belonging. The other three cast long shadows, and it might resemble an interrogation if it wasn’t for Kondou’s bolstering smile.

_I won’t let anyone kill me because of you._ That’s the second thought, and it’s the one that sticks. Because she remembers bowing, once, and scraping a smirk off another Okita’s face.

“I think the Yukimura you met was my father. He’s also said I have feminine features. For a boy.” 

“That’s rude of him,” Mitsu says, even though she’s the one to introduce this topic into the conversation. 

“And he’s gone missing somewhere in Kyoto,” Chizuru adds.

“That’s also rude of him.” 

It shouldn’t be funny, and Chizuru shouldn’t be smiling, not even a little bit. Yes, Mitsu and Okita have the same blood. “The Shinsengumi is helping me look for him,” she says. 

Mitsu doesn’t seem fooled, but she nods her head in Chizuru’s direction. The gesture of a gracious loser. “Yes. The Shinsengumi has been helpful to my family> I imagine they will do the same for you.” 

Hijikata actually lets out a sigh, like he’s finally been given permission to breathe. Chizuru’s probably imagining it, but she thinks she sees Kondou gently elbowing his friend. _Calm down._

There’s no hope of true stability, though. Here comes Okita, loping on into the room, like he’s a wolf in truth. He doesn’t stomp, which terrifies Chizuru more than if he had. So when his eyes fall on her, she immediately leaps to her feet. 

“No, no, Ch- Yukimura.” In any other circumstance, the clumsiness of her family name in his mouth would amuse her. “If you want to keep on taking my place, go right ahead. I don’t feel like being here for long”

“Souji!” Hijikata _and_ Kondou speak up at once, panicked more than angry. 

That does the trick. Mitsu looks up at Okita, waiting to speak until he’s taken a seat. Chizuru is neither dismissed nor told to stay. All she knows is that someone will have to keep pouring the tea.

“You have become even taller,” Mitsu says. It’s difficult to tell whether she means this in fondness or as an accusation. But Chizuru notices how her eyes are no longer darting from person to person. They’ve remained affixed to her brother ever since he entered the room. 

“You haven’t,” Okita replies. He doesn’t sound happy to see her, nor does he sound angry or sad. He doesn’t sound like much of anything. He doesn’t look away either. 

And then, incredibly, the conversation continues. It goes on and on. 

Chizuru hovers with her pot of tea. The conversations meanders to past incidents that mean nothing to her, but she observes how Kondou facilitates the conversation. She pours the drink whenever there is a need; Hijikata has a lot of it, while Souji drinks very little. 

“Your niece enjoyed your last letter,” Mitsu says. Chizuru attempts to picture this child. All she can manage is a shorter Okita, with slightly longer hair, even though she knows that can’t be right.

“She’s back at your home, right?” He’s staring into his cup, and Chizuru imagines his reflection in it. Those stabbing eyes reflected and shattering on a liquid surface. “Or did you you leave her behind somewhere, too?” 

Hijkata’s knee slams into the table, and Kondou makes an inarticulate, growling yelp. For once, Okita is not attuned to either of them. He and Mitsu glare at each other and neither yields in the slightest. 

“No, Souji. You should know she’s not subject to sankin-kotai”

Okita looks away. “I’m glad she liked my letter. She has nice calligraphy.”

“Of course she does. I made sure of it.”

At some point, Hijikata signals that Chizuru can leave. At first she is disappointed. But, after she leaves their line of vision, she takes about six steps before she nearly doubles over. She presses her hands to her forehead, wondering how a mere conversation (one in which she barely participated!) could leave her so winded. 

“Don’t worry.” Yamazaki is a voice first, before he’s a form emerging from wherever he was hiding. “Many of us have been around them when they do this. We all react the same way.” 

“Are they always, so….?” Her free hand twists, like she might pluck the right word out of the air.

“Of course. You did well.” His lips are rather full, and right now Chizuru can see the suggestion of a grin. “Better than most.” 

_Oh, he had been listening._ Of course he had been. She suddenly wonders how much he knows about her, how much he’s not saying. 

“I thought she would take me away to the authorities.” Chizuru says this lightly because, if Yamazaki can listen, she can obfuscate. 

“Nah. If she’s around, she and Okita forget everyone else for the most part.”

*

The next part happens as it always does. Mitsu demands Okita’s presence for a stroll around the city. Okita puts up a fight until one insistent word from Kondou kills that bit of rebellion. Strikes it dead, deep in the roots. 

And then Yamazaki waits for Hijikata to find him.

“Do I even need to spell out what you need to do?” 

With this implicit command, Yamazaki is off and away. 

He traipses well behind the two Okitas. They’re too far away for Yamazaki to eavesdrop effectively, but he has little interest in their conversation. He’s never been told why he has to trail Okita in the daylight, especially when he always carries his weapons. And Yamazaki never inquires, because he can draw his own conclusions.

Still, Yamazaki really should ask Hijikata what to do if the two siblings started a brawl in the middle of the street. 

Or, even worse; what would he do if one of them started to cry and couldn’t stop? 

From a distance, there’s something picturesque about the Okita siblings. They are both tall. They are both graceful. Though they are attractive, Yamazaki doesn’t think that’s why passersby occasionally double-take when the two of them stroll on past. 

The breeze ruffles Mitsu’s sleeves, and in her yukata she’s a blue-black willow on the horizon. Okita is wearing his nicest clothes, almost certainly at Kondou’s insistence. They don’t seem to talk very much, but when Okita speaks, Mitsu always turns to listen. As though she wants to meet each word head on. As though she wants to save them for nourishment during months and years of distance. 

Okita matches his paces to hers, slowing down when she does, and speeding up when she does.

*

Later that night, Okita corners Yamazaki in some neglected corner of the compound.

“I _know_ Hijikata-san has you follow us, Yamazaki.” This is unusual. Okita’s always clearly known at it, but it’s been below his pride to acknowledge it before. 

Now he pauses. It’s as though he’s built himself up to this boiling rage but, thus expressed, he has no idea what to do with it. 

So he settles on a question. “What do you tell him, exactly?” 

“I tell him that there’s nothing unusual to report. I didn’t even hear any of your conversation.” 

“Hah, like I believe that.” 

“Then don’t believe me.” Yamazaki isn’t mad. Mostly he’s just imagining sinking into his sleeping pallet and exiting into oblivion for a little while. “I don’t think one can prove a negative anyway.” 

Abruptly, Okita laughs. He laughs and laughs. “Oh, I don’t know. Mitsu and I have always been good at proving negatives.” 

When Okita walks away, Yamazaki finds himself wishing that he had work to do with Chizuru tonight. Instead, he just has to live with the weirdness of this day. 

*  
Chizuru opens her door the following morning, and Mitsu pounces. Dressed for travel, she puts a finger to her own lips. And then, with assured steps, she leads Chizuru back into the room. The door slides shuts. 

This all happens in a matter of seconds. 

Chizuru bows, for lack of a better thing to do. Her bangs fall down, and cover anything her eyes might reveal. She looks around for her kodachi, but it’s not a comfort when she spots it. She tries to imagine plunging the blade into Mitsu’s body, and her stomach turns. 

No, she could never do something like that.

“May I help you?”

“Of course not.” Mitsu says this without reservation. “I might be able to help you, however, if it’s needed. Are you with the shinsengumi willingly?” 

Chizuru wonders what would happen if she said no. What could Mitsu hope to do?

“You’re so quiet! I can guess what you’re wondering. But I can’t just see a young woman stranded here, and not _ask_.” Mitsu paces a little, even though her posture remains faultless. Chizuru has a feeling no one hired any sort of etiquette coach for her, if the money had been that bad (during that semi-disastrous tea “ceremony” Chizuru had learned more than she wanted to ever know about the Okitas’ poverty-plagued past.)

Much of what Mitsu knows, it’s likely she taught herself. Clearly. She’s already proven herself to be disastrously observant. 

“I’m not a girl, I’m-”

“Yes, you are. But don’t worry. I had a _discussion_ with Hijikata-san, and convinced him that I made the realization through no fault of your own. He was quite convinced.” 

Chizuru tries to reconstruct _that_ conversation. It’s impossible.

“I’m not in danger here.” 

Mitsu fixes her with an incredulous stare. 

“I mean it.”

Mitsu takes this silence, stretches it, and Chizuru waits for something to break. 

Were she another kind of person, Mitsu might start ringing her hands together at this point. As it stands, her jewelry trembles a little. As though it must express what Mitsu will not allow from her body.

“You must see it from my point of view, right?” There’s nothing cold about her eyes. Nothing grasping or cruel. If anything, they are too warm. Too caring. It’s like sitting too close to a campfire in the winter. “I come to this hall, and I find that they are keeping a young woman here. I doubt that this is where you dreamed of ending up as child, yes? Are you a hostage to lure your father out of hiding? The chances of you being here unwillingly were far too great. I couldn’t _not_ intervene. Especially when I trust my brother to these people. It’s my duty to worry.”

Chizuru’s first thought doesn’t concern herself. They don’t even concern Mitsu. _She could probably haul me out of here, but she would never convince Okita to leave._

She feels something that might be pity, but she’s not quite sure.

“Your instincts are good.” Chizuru nods her head. “When I was first brought here, I often wanted to to run away.” Even now, she reveals this in a low tone. Even though it would not be a surprise for anyone. It’s never been spoken aloud before, and so it had belonged to her alone.

And now Mitsu carries a portion of it.

“What changed for you?”

Chizuru starts to reiterate her original claim. No, no, she’s not in danger here. But of course she is. Everyone in this place is in danger. Belonging to the Shinsengumi offers many things, but security is not one of them. 

“Well, they also want to find my father.” As she says this, something nags at her. It’s a mere splinter of a thought. Loyalties to the Shinsengumi run deep, and so many of the men here have been associated with one another for years. Her father’s time with them had been short and no one seems to have become close to him with him. Month of not being let out of the compound attest to him not being a priority for the Shinsengumi. Yet, sometimes, when they speak of him they have the willful tones of people speaking around and above a tragedy. It’s as though failing to find him will allow them to avoid confronting something far worse. 

What could that be?

“Yukimura?” 

“And,” she swallows, “if I leave… I’ll still want to find him. I’ll probably always wonder what happened to him. It’s dangerous here, but they have good resources at their disposal. They’re my best chance for finding him. He’s my only family left, you know.”

The more brittle Chizuru becomes, the more Mitsu softens. Chizuru can almost picture her kissing her daughter (Okita’s niece!) on the forehead. She has no idea what a motherly embrace feels like. She must have had one at some point but, now, she only sees it amongst her neighbors and their children. 

“You’re practical.” Mitsu declares this, and makes it sound like fact rather than opinion. “I hope you can lead Souji by example.”

It’s an absurd thought. Okita never notices her. Chizuru bows again, and it’s a mistake. She more she stares towards the ground, the more she realizes how much she wants to lie down. It's been months since she's felt rested.

Other thoughts emerge, too. Yes, her father is her primary motivation. Her love for him, and the mystery of his vanishing. But time moves forward, and she realizes she has other motivations, too. If she leaves with Okita Mitsu, tonight, her medical apprenticeship will end. She will probably never work with Yamazaki again. She will never again help him piece together things that had become wounded or broken or undone.

“I’m not always practical,” she confesses. 

“To be honest, I don’t think any of us can be practical all the time.” 

Even after Mitsu leaves the Shinsengumi, Chizuru’s room smells like her perfume for a long time.

*

After the confrontation at Ikeda inn, Yamazaki mentally curses the entire existence of summer. 

_This would be so much easier with snow!_

As it stands, Yamazaki has to treat Heisuke’s likely concussion without any sort of ice. There’s no chance of early morning frost. For now he has a rag he’s sluicing all the blood out of Heisuke’s hair. The guy had looked a gory mess, and he had had a feeling some of the men were mentally saying their goodbyes. When Chizuru saw Heisuke, she had gone quite pale, but she hadn’t cried, hadn’t begged him for information. All this, even though Yamazaki knows for a fact that Heisuke is far and away the kindest toward her. If he dies, Chizuru will be that much lonelier.

He’d asked her if she knew how to make a cold compress. When she’d nodded, the request had barely fallen from his lips before she was rushing off to do it. She’s returning with it now. He holds his hand out to her, and she gives him what he needs as if they’ve been doing this for years. 

There’s still quite a lot of blood. It’s taken a long time to staunch the flow, and Yamazaki’s hands are stained a rusty brown. However, it actually gives him hope as to Heisuke’s chances of survival. Head wounds bled profusely on the surface, but one could come back from that. If Heisuke had had a bloodless dent in his forehead, that would have been much more alarming.

Chizuru keeps Heisuke talking while Yamazaki works. He likes this, too. Whenever he has to keep a man conscious, he often ends up lecturing at them. Sometimes genuinely, sometimes not. He has discovered that anger, more than anything else, can keep a person going. When there’s no hope of love or ambition, frustration or vengeance will often suffice. Some people persist out of sheer annoyance and spite.

Still, there’s something soothing about Chizuru’s method. If she even has a conscious method. She’s restful without making a person drowsy. He listens, rather rapt, as the two of them discuss trivial things. As they do so, Yamazaki wipes away the last of the blood, finding the source of trauma on Heisuke’s head. There’s a long, but shallow scratch mark, and it soon disappears under the cold compress. No dents to be found, and none of the raised marks that indicated hematoma. 

Heisuke will outlive them all, probably.

“You’re not going to like this,” he says, after the last of his work is done, “but you have a mild concussion.” Yamazaki actually isn’t certain, but it’s better to be cautious. And Heisuke will believe whatever he says. For all his energy, he’s always been a good patient. “And you will have to limit your physical activity for a few weeks.” 

Heisuke absorbs the blow as best he can. And then he parries. “What about him?” There are screens that divide the patients and he raises a hand towards Okita’s shadow. Earlier, he had complained that Shinpachi was allowed to return to his room, after Yamazaki had treated his wounded hand. It seems that Okita is his new tactic, and it’s not a bad one. “He bled more than me.”

It’s not true, but Okita does, indeed, have some formidable injuries of his own. Feeling that Heisuke is safe with Chizuru, Yamazaki makes his way to his other charge. Okita lies on his pallet, and fakes sleep in an unconvincing way. 

Okita’s hand snaps out, and grabs onto Yamazaki’s wrist. There were some people who acquiesced to treatment, and others who acted like they were still in battle. Okita was the latter.

“There’s nothing for you to do here,” Okita says. Yamazaki notices flecks of blood on his teeth, and in the edges of his rictus grin. There’s a smattering of blood across his collar, and it has left smear marks consistent with something expelled from the mouth. He looks ancient and childlike all at once. The blood is new, and that precise smile is something of a novelty, too. 

Okita has tended towards the frenzied side, lately. Normally, Yamazaki would be tempted to blame the chaos of his sister’s visit. However, when he examines his memories, he is sure this phase has lasted longer than that. Does it stem from a fear of meeting Sannan’s fate? Okita is the kind of person to believe that naming a thing speaks it into existence. Furthermore, he takes disruptions of routine as a personal slight.

“Just cooperate!” Heisuke yells, the divider doing nothing to muffle his words. It makes Yamazaki want to laugh, but, judging by Okita’s scowl, it’s also the wrong way to approach the situation. Not that Yamazaki intends to do much better. There are a couple different ways to cajole and manipulate Okita, and he has stopped bothering with any of them long ago. It’s too exhausting. 

Human beings should not be like pampered house cats.

“Clean off your face,” Yamazaki says, dipping a fresh cloth in the bucket of water, then handing it over. 

After wiping the towel across his face, Okita’s forehead creases after it comes away stained with faint red. “Must’ve bit my tongue,” he says.

“You got punched in the chest, right?” he asks. He goes for a neutral tone, but Okita scowls, anyway.

“I fought back, you know. He didn’t get that strike in easily.”

“I can believe that.” If nothing else, Yamazaki can believe that. “But let me check on how you are. I probably have to administer aid in some way.” 

“Seriously? I’m fine?” 

_Do you even know what ‘fine’ looks like, Okita?_. 

“If you leave, you know Hijikata-san is just going to drag you back in here.” (A faint “ohhhh…” hisses out of Heisuke, while Chizuru chats a bit louder to obscure it.)

It’s fairly obvious Okita is imagining stabbing Yamazaki’s face. Probably debating the merits between knives and fingernails, too. The former would lay meticulous waste to Yamazaki’s eyes, ruining his career. The latter would be a bit more haphazard, but Okita’s nails are blunt and dull. They would impart more agony, in the end, and Okita has always been a faithful scholar of pain.

Okita loosens his obi, and it snaps almost like a whip. He parts the folds of his shirt, like he wishes he was beating someone. The bruise mark on his chest looks like someone knocked him over with a battering ram. Not entirely consistent with a single swordsman.

Again, Yamazaki finds himself wishing for ice and explanations that make sense.

“Try to always elevate this area. And you’ll have to come back to me in a few days so I can put a warm washcloth on it.”

“Hurray.” Okita idly punches at the air. Yamazaki tries not to smile when he winces at the effort. “More time with you.”

Yamazaki carefully brushes his fingers over Okita’s chest. Oddly, this earns him no snide comments, no demands to go away. His skin is warm, although also a bit clammy, and he never flinches no matter how close Yamazaki gets to his various injuries. Despite the bruising, the ribs appear to be whole, even if the skin that encloses them has been banged up. 

“That’s it for now. Although you’re going to sleep here tonight.”

“Fine, but you better check up on Chizuru, eh? She smashed a vase over that guy’s head and she probably has some interesting splinters.”

Yamazaki sighs. He makes his way back to the other portion of the room. Heisuke has his eyes closed, but Chizuru keeps her fingers around his wrist. Fingers just over the pulse, probably drawing comfort from that beat that means sustained life. (Yamazaki had held onto Ibuki just this way. Back in those tense days when the two of them had wandered the wasteland between life and death.)

“Well?” he asks, finding no preamble necessary. “Is he right?” She spreads her fingers, and there’s nothing embedded in her skin. She holds out her other hand, and there’s nothing wrong with it either.

“No,” she whispers. Probably to avoid waking Heisuke up, but she bows her head like she’s being scolded. “I’m not hurt.”

Once again, he finds himself staring at her uninjured skin. Once again there’s something almost feverish in her eyes, something like sheer glass. Her thoughts will shatter if he prods at them too hard just now. He can wait, and he can watch; it’s the easiest thing in the world. 

“Didn’t think so,” he says, this time using the voice he uses for men he’s sure will die, for some reason. But Chizuru relaxes visibly, and it’s good to see. 

But it’s also a mystery. The pair of them are the worst kind of enigma. Okita, with his shirt covered in blood stains that shouldn’t exist. Chizuru, once again extending a hand to him, a hand that’s free of blood.

They are like two answers to the same untranslated question.

*

The morning after. 

The sky is pale, the murky color of a submerged pearl. Chizuru sits outside, tea cup in hand, too tired to care if she shouldn’t be here. If Hijikata disapproves of this snatched moment of freedom, she trusts him enough to know he’ll be merciful enough to make her death quick.

_What an odd way to realize you fear someone a little less._

Her very bones seem to ache and sing, illuminated with purpose. It’s been a while since she’s felt this way. She thinks and thinks, and decides it’s possible she’s never felt this way. 

When she hears Yamazaki walking her way, she realizes she’s been waiting for him all along. 

“Yukimura,” he says, by way of greeting. Then he sits next to her.

“Is everyone alright, still?” Her cup is empty, it still seems to glow with remembered warmth of tea.

“Yes.” In that simple affirmation, she hears it; _they will live for now._ “You were a great deal of help.” 

She hadn’t done much at all. Minor treatments. Her imitation of her father’s way with patients. But, practicing it had been like seeing herself from a different angle. It had been like seeing a reflection of herself wearing newer and better clothing. It was a foundation for what could be, but for the moment she didn’t quite recognize herself.

“I would like to keep helping you,” she ventures. She doesn’t expect anything to come of it, but nothing will happen if she doesn’t ask. 

“What do you mean?”

“I’d like to be your… official apprentice, maybe? If you’ll have me.”

She lets him think on it. His fingers press together, in front of his face, pointing upward. His troubled look is unexpected. She’d expected anger, at worst. 

“I don’t want to take anything from you. I just want to learn and help. This seems the best way.” 

“I would like that,” he says, but she can’t rejoice just yet. It’s so transparently obvious that an unhappier thought clings to that statement. “However, if we work together to treat patients we will need to trust each other implicitly. Otherwise we might hinder our own work.”

“You don’t… Trust me?” She blinks, and stares at her toes. They don’t know each other. Not really. This shouldn’t hurt at all. Wounds don’t last on her, after all. They sting, and fade. This shouldn’t hurt. 

“No, I think I can. I probably already do. You, however, have every reason to distrust me.” 

“Why do you say that?” 

Yamazaki bends his knees, pulling them up near his chest. His arms rest over them and, in his casual clothing, there’s a rustling sound as fabric glides over his legs. Chizuru wonders if he’s consciously chosen such a self-defensive posture. In this position, he is shielding so many of his vital organs. Heart, stomach, liver, and so on. Someone could stab him from behind, of course, puncturing a lung. Nothing protects his arms, or the arteries within. She also notices how her own hand is sprawled out on the wood below, and she leans on it. The fine bones of her knuckles ripple under her skin. Everything around her is fragile and pale, and Yamazaki is about to say something terrible. 

And she’s not afraid. 

“Do you remember how I was away for a while when you were first incarcerated here? I know that happened really soon after we met, and that was a stressful time for you, so you might not.” 

Chizuru takes note of that word. _Incarcerated._. He makes no show of _when you were a guest_ , _when you first arrived_. Just the bald truth of what she had once been, and what he had helped maintain. He is a spy, yet he mostly deals in the truth when it comes to her. 

“I remember that.” 

“Did anyone tell you what I was going during that time?” 

She turns to look at him. Her eyes follow the outline of his profile, tracing his forehead, nose, lips and chin. For some reason, her fingers itch to go everywhere her gaze lands. She imagines her hand gently sweeping away that guarded look on his face. She imagines staring into all that lay hidden, concealed. If you want to go from being strangers to friends, someone must reveal something close to their soul. Yamazaki is taking the first leap, here. 

Chizuru knows far more about Yamazaki, now. His role within the Shinsengumi is as certain as hers as nebulous. Despite her transient role, she has eyes to hear, ears to listen, and a mind that could weave connections together. Just like necessity (and something undefinable besides) continues to tangle her up with Yamazaki.

“Hijikata ordered you to check up on my story, didn’t he?” she thinks she knows what the answer will be. “And to do so, you had to break into my home.”

“Yes. I did.” Yamazaki’s lower lip disappears between his upper lip, and he draws his shoulders in closer. Protecting his neck. He takes full credit for what he has done, even though her question implicates Hijikata.

_He’s scared,_ it shocks her so thoroughly that her fear and anger turns to ash. _I don’t think he’s scared of being caught, either._

After all, he has confessed, when there was no obligation for him to do so. None at all. 

“I don’t know how I feel about that,” she says. There’s a hitch in her voice, a moment there that sounds like blame or distress, and also like neither of those things.

“Of course not,” He shifts a little, turning to face her, until their eyes meet. “I just told you. I wouldn’t expect you to decide right away” 

“Would you do it again?” she asks, head tilted. She’s aware of how limp her bangs have become. And yet she hasn’t wilted under last night’s exertions. She doesn’t feel like she’s crumpling now. 

“There would be no need. Your loyalty is assured in my eyes,” Yamazaki says. “But I do this kind of work for the Shinsengumi all the time. I spy, I follow our enemies. I observe so many of the goings-on in our city. Some of these things that I do are amoral but I will keep doing them. That’s the kind of person you’d be working with, every single day.” 

Chizuru understands all this, just as she understands that he has no personal vendetta against her. At the time, she had been one task to complete, a person to analyze, a possible obstacle to safety of all these men he hounded and hassled to stay safe. The Shinsengumi were his life’s work, and she had once been a potential disease to them. 

And then the days had passed, one after another, like raindrops flooding a ravine. Chizuru had spent so much time wondering at her place among these men, but, only now did it fully occur to her they might also be confused at her place in their lives. 

“You feel some guilt about it,” she says. “But you’re not looking for forgiveness.” 

“No,” he said, sounding faintly miserable. “There’s … one other thing we will need to address, if you join me as my apprentivce, but I need Hijikata’s permission to tell you it. This, however, is something I can tell you. And I want you to be able to make up your mind knowing as many facts as possible.” 

For all his dispassionate analysis, he stares at her like he wants something he can’t quite name, and he can only get it from her. 

Yes, he’s right. She can’t quite trust him, yet. She can’t fully trust any of them, even though she now thinks they’d mourn if they had to kill her. But trust was a growing thing. She was almost certainly naïve, but she was ready for this new stage in her life. 

So here she goes. She jumps.

“This thing you can’t tell me yet…” She moves in a little closer, until their thighs touch. Chizuru is as serious as she is still. “It has to do with my father, doesn’t it?” 

His face is pale, but she thinks that might just be the last dregs of moonlight streaming over it. 

“I know you can’t answer me now. I also want to know if you found everything you were looking for in Edo.” 

It’s meant to be a joke- a barbed joke, perhaps, maybe Mitsu had had an influence on her- but it turns out he can answers this. 

“No.” 

“I thought my loyalty was assured.”

“It is. But I never did find out why you heal so quickly.”

A roaring sound engulfs her. Like a huge storm battering one's windows. Like blood rushing through her ears when she stares down from some great height. She struck by vertigo. She's struck by her failure to follow her father’s one rule, even when he might be dead somewhere. 

“I don’t know that either.” She has never sounded quite this empty before. Not even that first night, when they’d tied her up, and hauled her away. Chizuru is so shamed by this that she can’t say anything else. Yamazaki doesn’t speak, either. 

It’s uncertain how long they sit there. Minutes? Hours? But then she stands up, all in a daze, and she turns to go inside. 

“Yukimura…” Yamazaki’s voice grabs onto her, and holds her in place. “Your healing abilities are an unusual trait, but there are a lot of unexpected things in this world. But they aren’t always bad.”

_But my father has made it out to be bad for my whole life._

And yet Yamazaki made it sound so simple. And yet her heart clamored for truth. For acceptance. 

“Then let’s discover the answers to some of them. Together.” 

Yamazaki unfurls from his tightly coiled posture. Looks up at her like a supplicant, but the light in his eyes makes him appear as a friend.

“Get some sleep, apprentice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing Yamazaki/Chizuru is interesting because... well... they're both so devoted to everyone around them! As such, it seems like a relationship with them would emerge from them noticing how the other's relationships to other people. Hence why this chapter throws them at quite a few different characters. 
> 
> And I couldn't resist having a cameo from Okita's sister. I love the glimpses we get, in canon, of Hijikta and Kondou being terrified of her. Also it felt appropriate because Yamazaki is such a presence in Okita's route, it somehow feels right that Okita would be a major presence in a Yamazaki route.
> 
> Oh, yes, Mitsu mentions something called sankin-kotai. Here's the wikipedia page on on it; https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sankin-k%C5%8Dtai
> 
> Here's hoping chapter three is out before 2017!


End file.
